A Mariner's Voyage
Intro A lone silhouette clad in black strode through the cobblestone, paved streets (which were overruled by the strong aroma of the various exotic spices sold there) and through that dark and stormy Curaçao night. A large tropical storm had been brewing throughout the far Southeastern Caribbean Isles, devastating major isles such as Puerto Bello, Nombre de Dios, Santa Marta, Rio de la Hacha, around and through the curve of the large inlet, barraging Maracaibo first and then Gibraltar. It had taken naught but four-and-twenty suns for the hell-spawned storm to reach Curaçao—where the lone figure now hurried to the Admiral of the Fleet's residence. Upon arriving at his destination, wherein the Admiral, a battle-worn, young master-at-arms and excellent sailor, slept, the frantic messenger rapped on his higher-up's oaken, worn door, the wood on which gave him a splinter. “Verdoemen,” hissed the frantic man quietly to himself. The Admiral came to the door and they began to converse in their native language. “Mijn excuses, meneer, heb ik je niet laten storen.” “Het is oke. Waarom ben je gekomen, luitenant?” “Meneer, we hebben verloren Fluyt. Ze was op weg naar Port-de-Paix.” “Taken of verloren?” “Taken.” What they were saying was as follows: “My apologies, Sir, I did not mean to disturb you.” “It is okay. Why have you come, Lieutenant?” “Sir, we've lost a Fluyt. She was headed toward Port-de-Paix.” “Taken or lost?” “Taken.” Utter silence followed. The Admiral, switching to his best (though heavily accented) English, so as his family could not understand, replied, “Ready the Krijger to sail on the morrow, first light. We are to prey on Spanish vessels. This embargo is coming to an end.” “Aye, Sir.” Chapter 1 At first light, as said before, anchour was weighed and a captain, Mr. Peter Maastrichten, was selected. Cruel and feared, he was, but an excellent captain. Some thought him brilliant and some thought him bloody insane. Conditions onboard the Krijger were brutal. The captain spat. “I don't like you . . .” he said to the cabin boy. “May I ask why and what I may do to alter that opinion, sir?” the cabin boy, a scrawny, teenaged Londoner who'd signed aboard in Kent, England. “Question me again and see what happens, boy—one more word!” the captain roared. “Y-yes, sir,” the boy replied but clearly ought not have. Maastrichten then and there took up the cat and beat the young boy mercilessly five times over. Maastrichten tied the boy around the chest to the ship and ordered him to clean the barnacles, which had crusted onto the ship's side, off with his bare hands. “But, sir, my hands will get cut up on the barnacles, just bare. I need a special tool, if that is alright,” the physically-abused boy said, praying that he was not beaten again. By now a curious crowd, intently listening, had gathered. “Do I look like I GIVE A DAMN!?” the captain yelled shortly before kicking the poor boy, attached the the rope over the edge, in the stomach, causing him to crash into the barnacles. “Back to your stations, men!” A chorus of “Aye, Sir!” was what followed. “DROP REEFED SAILS! AND MAKE HASTE!” 20 of the most nimble out o' the men climbed up the thick rigging and up to the yardarms. “HEAVE!—”was said and they all gave it a mighty tightening—“HO—” was bellowed out from the chests of strong men with their hearts set on four things—making home, raiding the taverns, pay, and their families. For some of them, just the second. One shall have to remember whilst reading this: Back in these days, sailors lived in fear of bring press-ganged into servitude. On many, especially naval, British ships, on average, about 3/4 of the crew had been press-ganged. As sailors had a certain look to them, it was usually, as one might imagine, not very hard to pick them out from the other gents at the pub. However, sailors' one defence against the press-gangers was having some sort of other profession, such as being a barkeep, and it was illegal (ironic how it was “legal” whatsoever) to take a man with another profession. Although many of the men on the Krijger did sign aboard, sailors dreaded the feared Press-Gangers for fear of going to sea and never returning. Even more, they feared the harsh and brutal captains—they feared captains like Peter Maastrichten. Captains that got the job done, however many casualties there may sustain. 100 miles northwest of the coast of Montserrat, patrolling the waters around St. Kitts and Nevis Onboard the Victoire, the pride of the French navy—a Fourth Rate with 60 Howitzers, which have the ability to hurl 24-pound projectiles as well as massive volleys of canister shot, large containers of lead balls that explode on impact, devastating the unfortunate crew that should fall victim (and many have) to it—there was great discussion and unrest on the topic of a possible war with The Netherlands, and with it her allies. They thought they had come to prey on poorly-manned British trade, payroll vessels, grain transports, and troop transportations. Not the well-disciplined crews of one of the grandest navies ever to sail. “Monsieur capitaine!” said a frantic young man. “Oui?” “Are the rumours of a maritime war with The Netherlands true?” “We will just have to wait and see, oui?” “I suppose so, Monsieur.” Category:POTCO Category:POTCO Stories